


Butter, Garlic, Spice

by Gileonnen



Series: while joined( Glass, Sky ) [4]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Black Market Butter, Cooking as Surest Test of Love, Domestic Wizard Threesomes, Fond Bickering and Banter, M/M, Multi, Old Married Arguments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 10:37:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20445758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gileonnen/pseuds/Gileonnen
Summary: Kabr, Praedyth, and Pahanin make dinner and fall into old habits.





	Butter, Garlic, Spice

The dough has risen until it's almost too fluffy to handle. Kabr has to knead it down with his thumbs, roll it between his palms, until the texture feels more firm and elastic.

"The bread's going to be tough," Pahanin warns, the way he always does.

"I like it tough," says Kabr, the way he always does. He sprinkles the table with flour and spreads it out with both hands, then pinches off a little ball of dough and starts to roll it out. It's easy to find a rhythm like that, the ball of dough and the rolling pin and the brush of oil on the crust.

Praedyth scoops a little clarified butter into the wok and tilts it around as it melts. The warm, smooth-sweet smell of butter fills the kitchen--it's a luxury they don't often have, with the farms being what they are, but Pahanin said he'd found a bargain. He'd been evasive about the details, which usually means he spent more than he wants to admit. Still, Kabr isn't one to question black-market butter.

Pahanin cuts the onions fine, his hands swift and practiced on his knives. "Someone take these away from me; the cutting board's overflowing," he calls, and Praedyth's there to scoop up handfuls of paper-thin onion slices and toss them into the wok. They hiss and bubble in the butter, which smells like it's just on the edge of browning. Praedyth stirs fast, pushing the onions up along the sides of the pan to keep them from burning.

"I'll need the garlic soon," Praedyth says. "These are rapidly passing 'caramelized' and approaching 'crispy.' You always slice them too thin."

"I slice them exactly thin enough. You always turn the heat up too high. If you lower the heat, they'll melt in your mouth, I promise." Pahanin dips his head a little so that he can look at Praedyth through his long, dark lashes. "And if you play your cards right, I might let you melt in mine later tonight."

Praedyth only snorts and turns the heat down. "Mature."

"My flirtations are a banquet for which your palate is insufficiently sophisticated." With a great _whack_ of his knife, Pahanin smashes a few cloves of garlic against the cutting board. He strips off the skins, flourishing them into the compost; Kabr absently reminds himself that it's nearly time to take the bin out again. A few deft flicks of Pahanin's wrist see the garlic neatly minced, scraped onto the edge of a knife, and tossed into the sizzling pan of onions.

Kabr shakes his head and grins as he wipes his rolling pin down. Even in this, the most ordinary of chores, Pahanin has to put on a show.

With the garlic and the onions cooking together, Praedyth starts adding spices. He measures by some arcane process that Kabr thinks is more smell than sight, balancing cardamom against cumin against cinnamon until the entire kitchen is redolent with their aromas. Salt and pepper and a few heads of star anise, coriander and dried red chili. "Remember to pick the anise out," Kabr says.

"I left it in _exactly once_," says Praedyth, making an aggrieved sound through his nose.

"There was also that time with the cardamom pods--" puts in Pahanin, ever-helpful.

"Hush, you. I still need those eggplants cut up, and then the spinach after."

"I can cut vegetables and tease you at the same time."

Praedyth sighs and leans over to kiss him, and Pahanin manages to squeak out something that sounds like "Knives!" before swaying into the kiss. His knives clatter to the counter beside a half-sliced eggplant, and then his eyes are closed and his hands are in Praedyth's hair.

They're so dear and so in love that it makes Kabr's chest tight to see them.

Kabr waits a moment to interrupt them, and then he says very gently, "Your onions are going to burn."

"Fuck!" Praedyth turns to the wok and stirs again, harder, frantically tossing in chunks of eggplant to even out the heat a little.

Kabr eases in beside him to steal a few sesame seeds to sprinkle onto his flatbread, then slides the pan into the oven. "It smells good," he says, pressing a kiss to Praedyth's temple. "Not even a little burnt."

"You're not just telling me that, are you?" Praedyth asks.

"Would I just tell you something like that?" For a moment, Praedyth looks like he's thinking it over, and Kabr can't help smiling and kissing the corner of his mouth.

"I remain unkissed," says Pahanin piteously.

"You were _just_ kissed," Praedyth says, but Pahanin scoops the rest of the eggplant into the wok, which quiets his protests.

Kabr reaches out a floury hand to touch Pahanin's chin, easing it down so that he can brush a kiss against Pahanin's lips. It's a whisper-soft kiss, but it lingers on, and the longer they hold the kiss, the more full and deep it feels. It's the kind of kiss you could drown in, if you wanted to--or float on forever.

When they pull apart at last, Pahanin's eyes are soft and shining. His lips are slightly parted, and Kabr wants to fit himself to the curve of them again. "Will that do?" he asks, only a whisper.

Pahanin wrinkles his nose. "There's flour on my chin, isn't there," he answers.

"And bits of garlic in my hair," adds Praedyth. "Thank you, Pahanin."

"Lie down with wolves and wake up with garlic in your hair; I believe that's the old saying."

With one last, quick kiss to each of them, Kabr dumps the stem ends of the eggplant in the compost bin and picks it up to take outside. "Please don't murder each other until I get back," he says.

"If you insist," says Praedyth.

Pahanin grins over his shoulder as he starts on the spinach. "Not until after dinner," he says, and the little light in his eyes _promises_.


End file.
